


Periphery

by Roe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brother Feels, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roe/pseuds/Roe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 8x23. Sam POV. Sam hasn't recovered from the effects of the trials, the world is emotionally broken by the discovery of the angels, and neither brother has heard from Cas in months.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Love any questions or feedback.

Sam wanted it to be okay and it wasn’t.

Then again, Sam always wanted everything to be okay, and it never was.

But something had changed in him since the trials. Well, a lot had changed in him since the trials. And yes, the electricity running through his veins was still very painful, and he still felt very sick, but he had learned to cope with those things, as he always did. Coping. That was different for him, now, too. The days were long since over when he could cope by pretending that he was alright, or by running away, or even by praying.

No one coped by praying anymore. Everyone knew the futility now. Well, maybe saying no one prayed was a tiny exaggeration.

Some nights—most nights—Sam could hear Dean, still trying, the last man on a broken planet clinging to any semblance of hope, his voice quiet and low. Sam could hear more now, another change brought to him by the trials. And even when he tried not to listen, when Dean prayed, he could hear his voice bouncing off the walls of the bunker though the words themselves were lost in the confusion of the echo. Sometimes Dean’s voice was frantic, sometimes it was angry, but most nights, it was just pained, the words strangled, not quite making it out of his brother’s throat.

Back when the angels fell, they were first explained away as a freak meteor shower. Dean would be glued to the television, staring intently as the cameras panned over the trees, searching for a sign. A tan coat lying crumpled on the grass. A silk tie hanging limply from the branch of a tree. A naked man standing on the banks of a river, confused blue eyes following the cameras.

He saw, of course, none of those things.

Then the reports came of the miraculous conceptions. All over the world in numbers too large to ignore, women who never could have been pregnant were told that they would soon bring a baby into the world. Some, the virgins, met the news with faces of stifled laughter and utter confusion. Some, the patient women who had gone through years of injections and and tears, met the news with expressions brimming with pure serenity and bliss.

The first time Dean had heard that news report, he clenched the glass in his hand until it shattered. Sam knelt down, gingerly picking up the glass speckled with drops of blood as he furrowed his brow, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his own throat.

But nine months after the meteor shower, give or take, there was another rash of news reports about the miracle babies. They were being taken. Kidnapped out of their homes at night, some with notes taking their places in their cribs that read:

We’re sorry.

and:

We had to.

The first arrest was made three months after the kidnappings began. A woman, a beautiful woman with long, flowing blonde hair and porcelain skin was caught trying to take a newborn from its stroller in the park where his excited new parents were showing off their miracle child. When she was arrested, she told anyone who would ask, in a matter of fact, steady voice, that she was an angel. The newborns were angels too, when they all fell, and she was sorry, but they needed to be with their families. For what felt like the first time in a year, Sam smiled. Of course the first glimpse the world would get of an angel would actually look like a damned angel. Naturally.

Dean stood, watching the news with guarded eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest. Sam wondered why his brother looked so suspicious, but his brother couldn’t see the same pulsing luminescence to her skin like he could.

More angels came forward after that. They were given lie detector tests by the conspiracy theorists. Brain scans by curious doctors. They were coaxed into going on talk shows to meet the broken families that their vessels had left behind. Some, the ones who had not had vessels for long, would respond to their questions with a curious tilt of the head and a piercing stare.

Dean scowled and turned away.

Some went to churches and told of their lives to the congregations. The parishioners entered the services elated, and left in various states of shock, weighed down by sudden and total loss.

Churches were abandoned after that. Some went up in flames. And that’s when Sam began to hear his brother at night. The first night, Sam hovered outside Dean’s bedroom as the hunter chuckled softly to himself.

"I know you probably can’t hear this now, but I thought I’d give it a shot,"

and

"Those dicks on tv seemed to still have a speck of angel in them, so maybe you do too."

and

"Dude, please tell me you aren’t trying to steal anyone’s babies, alright?"

Sam backed away from the door. The revelation that turned everyone else’s life into chaos had put part of Dean’s back in order.

Because of course.

Finding Cas. That his brother could do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean head to the mountains to investigate demonic activity, but are happy to have some down time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I promise there is eventual DeanCas, but I got distracted by the brothers in this chapter because I just love them so much. Hope you enjoy and feel free to alert me to any mistakes.

Sam wasn’t up for hunts anymore. Well, not long ones anyway. Every month or so, they would find a case that was within a few hours drive, and Sam climb into the passenger seat and he and Dean would hit the road. There was a vengeful spirit in Salina. A few witches stirring up trouble in Omaha. Never anything Dean couldn’t handle on his own and Sam knew Dean only brought him to avoid hearing the protestations of his younger brother, but he didn’t complain.

There were demonic omens in Ft Collins, Colorado of all places, so they headed west—the omens themselves never panning out. Instead of climbing back into the impala and heading back to their makeshift home in Kansas, Dean suggested that they stay a few more days rather than hit the road. Sam enjoyed the air in Colorado, and the elevation seemed to be helping him feel marginally better, so he didn’t complain. They rented a room in town. It was a nicer place than they were used to, and the diner nearby served $1.50 breakfasts on the weekdays.

"College towns, man." Dean said with a grin.

Dean became a freaking tourist for the handful of days they were there, and there wasn’t really even that much to see. The drove up to the mountains. Waded in swimming holes. Sam laid down on the large rocks that were bathed in sunlight and drifted in and out of sleep, his brother’s humming of Metallica waking him up every so often. Sam would roll over onto a newly warmed bit of stone, sigh, and fall back into a light sleep.

Sam and Dean had always been close, freakishly so to outsiders, but those few days in Colorado brought them a little closer, if that was even possible.  They talked about bullshit for a few days, topics not broached in years out of necessity to discuss the ‘more important items’—stupid shit like cars, and sport teams that Dean would bad mouth, and Sam’s old college courses and Dean’s stories of his high school antics. Years ago, just after Sam left Stanford, they took these side trips more often. The world had more room to breathe then, it seemed. Before Sam’s myriad of illnesses and fuck ups. Before the apocalypse that never came.

Before Ruby.

Before Hell.

Sam knew why they were here and why Dean made no suggestions to head back to the bunker just yet. He could see it in the way Dean would watch him and quickly look away when Sam caught his eye, or mask his pained expression with a put upon grin.

Dean was saying goodbye.

This was harder. Always harder, the drawn out goodbye. They both knew, of course, that their lives were always in danger and that they could be dealing with one another's death at any minute. But this was different. Facing the possibility of death, no-- _the reality_ of it, every day, waiting--this was torturous. It was the same thing Sam had tried to do before Dean’s deal came due. He tried to talk to his brother more, tried to learn more about him to keep him with him even after Dean was gone, even though they both knew each other to the bone; tried to distract him with a facade of normalcy and Christmas presents and day trips.

It was ridiculously obvious and maybe even a little childish and they both knew it, but Sam let him do it. He could tell Dean knew that too, but they didn’t speak about that. They pointedly avoided any discussion about the tablets or the angels or the trials. Neither one would acknowledged that it had been a year without any sign of Cas. Dean acted as if Sam was getting better. Dean even—jokingly—discussed getting a place in the mountains and retiring from the life. Now more than ever, he was outwardly cheerful, but Sam could see the lump in Dean’s throat that would form out of nowhere, before he would cough and turn the music up in the impala. Sam wanted to assure him that he was okay, that they didn’t need to be saying goodbye at all, that he was getting better, but he couldn’t.  He knew the last part was a lie, and he couldn’t yet tell if all of it was, so he said nothing.

* * *

Their eighth day there, for the first time in years, Sam went into a book store and browsed the aisles languidly. There was no dusty tome they needed to find, no news paper articles about a decades old freak accident they were seeking out—just Sam alone, with aisles and aisles of literature. He picked up a few books and ran his hand down the spines that were only a little dusty, eventually settling on a well worn paperback copy of Collected Poems by W.B. Yeats, paid, and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Dean was leaning against the impala when he got outside, pretending to be completely uninterested in the used book store even though Sam knows that in the few hours to himself his brother allows himself not spent worrying about Sam, or praying to Cas, he’s thumbing through the pages of any number of books from their library at the bunker.

  
It was then Sam caught sight of her. Across the street, a girl was standing so still with her gaze fixed completely on him that she almost looked like a statue. She didn’t look more than 15, but if the depth of emotion and knowledge in her eyes didn’t give her away, the glow of her skin would. She didn’t look fearful, just immensely curious, and Sam felt sure that she wouldn’t run when he flicked his eyes to Dean to signal him.  Dean turned and looked at the girl curiously for a moment before turning his attention back to his brother. Sam was sure that Dean could see the resignation on his face; Dean sighed and closed his eyes briefly.

"Back to reality then, I guess."

Sam’s mouth formed a thin line as he nodded his agreement, and they turned to deal with a fallen angel.


End file.
